I grew up on the bluffs that overlook Lake Erie. I was always enamored by the vastness, beauty, and mystery of what can only be describes as an inland sea. As a small child, the thought that across the waters out of eyesight their lays another country fascinated me. Between the lakes south shore and her Northern Canadian shore lay the ruins of countless shipwrecks, mysteries, and plethora aquatic life. These romantic imaginations of adventure, foreign lands, and mystery contrasted sharply with the dark and eerie history of the land overlooking the water.
Just as the feelings conjured up by the lake contrasted with those from the land, so did the personality of my father with that of my grandfathers. My dad taught me to fish on the lake, how to sail, and how to scuba dive. My dad would tell me stories about his adventures as a young man on its waters; he would tell me about the lakes amazing history and about the magic of life. My grandfather taught me to hunt, how to stalk white tailed deer in the woods, and how to shoot. He told me stories about wars; both in the distant past and nearer the present, about death, and the dark history of the land. He taught me about the darker side of life.
“Do you know what happened her in the 1600s?” My grandfather asked as he opened a can of Copenhagen snuff, his Marlin 30-30 rifle resting in the crook of one elbow and armpit of his other.
“No? You mean about the Erie Indians grandpa?” I looked up at him, his dark green eyes, piercing like a hawk as he looked down at me, filling his lip with the tobacco. He shook his head as he brushed the brown residue from his fingers onto his blaze orange pant leg. “Thats right son, the Cat People and their enemies, the Iroquois.”
It was early December in Pennsylvania and for many families like mine that means one thing, Deer rifle season. I was now 15 and this year was my 5th season going out with my grandfather. I had been going out with him since I was about ten years old, not old enough to actually hunt but old enough to tag along. He taught me much about the land, the wildlife, and the more practical aspects of deer hunting. Along with that wealth of woodsman knowledge and craft came the less desirable thoughts for my young mind to ponder. The stories and “lessons” seemed to get darker every season.
My grandfather had served in the Korean war as an infantryman in the 1st Battalion, 11th Marine Regiment. He was wounded during the fighting and received a Purple Heart and Bronze Star with Valor for his actions during the battle. I know from my dad that part of the reason my grandfather was the way that he was had to do with those experiences. I now understand that he suffered from what is called PTSD.
It was cold out, in the mid-thirties that morning as me and my grandfather walked deeper into the woods. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground and underneath, a litter of leaves. We walked staggered up the hill from where we first entered the woods, my grandfather slightly ahead and to the right of me.
“there’s a place I want to show you today. It’s a place I took your dad when he was about your age. It’s just up this knoll.” My grandfather led the way up the small hill. “Old timers called it totem mound.” He barked as we walked farther in the woods. The slope was covered in hemlock, pine, and birch trees. As we crested the top, a large depression lay before us about 30 yards in diameter. In the center of this bowl-shaped depression sat a large flat rock about 10 feet across with a round notch in the center. On the other side of the bowl was another 50 yards of flat land and then a cliff. Beyond the cliff was the lake, not yet frozen. I stood at the edge of the bowl and peered out to the lake.
My grandfather was making his way down into the center of the depression, waving for me to come down and take a look. “This is where the Erie burned an Onondaga chief to avenge the death of 30 of their men, what was meant to be a wedding turned into a BBQ.” My grandfather knelt down, prodding at the notch in the rock while telling the story of the tracheary of the Iriqous and their slaughter of the Erie who had come to broker a peace. The final attempts at diplomacy when the Erie offered a woman for marriage to the Onondaga chief in exchange for peace, the women’s refusal, and the revenge that ultimately led to the chief being burned at the stake and a war of genocide that would wipe the Cat People of this land forever.
I got chills as my grandfather told me about the last words the Onondaga chief spoke, about the curse he had put on this land and whoever would dwell on it as he burned alive. “…and it was right here, right at this spot where they stripped him of his festal robes and bound him to a stake.” Grandpa said, still poking at the blackened, round notch with a stick, the greater portion of the behemoth stone now covered in green moss.
“Grandpa, whatever deer where around are now long gone thanks to your wild story.” I said, half smiling but not as amused as my face would have him believe. I stood there, wanting to shake my head. I wanted to hunt, not listen to ghost stories.
My grandfather stood up and looked me right in the eyes. “This land is cursed son! Its why got shrapnel in by body, why your uncle Denny got drafted and sent to Vietnam to die, its why your grandmother is dead in the ground, and its why your aunt can’t stop drinking!” Grandpa was now in my face, his eyes piercing into mine, I felt my mouth go dry and a surge of adrenaline as he staired at me, not blinking at all. “it’s why I brought you here, just as I brought your father before you. I want you to know why this family is a failure so that maybe someday you can get out of here before it takes you out.”
At this point I was starting to get a little scared. Here I have my crazy grandfather yelling at me in the woods with his deer rifle in his hand, blaming some ancient legend for the misfortunes of our family. I thought about what he said. Uncle Denny died in Vietnam, and I never even met him. My father never really knew him. My dad was born in 1965 and would have only been three when his oldest brother was killed in Vietnam. My aunt, the youngest was born after. Grandpa wanted to join the Marines; going to Korea was not the fault of some curse. Grandma died at the ripe old age of 80 from cancer, and Aunt Becky drank but I never thought of her as having a problem with Alcohol.
“Grandpa, your scarring me, are you like going to have a flashback and shoot me out here in the woods?” I said, laughing, hoping he would turn down his tone a little bit. It seemed to do the trick. He shook his head, smiled and said “Iam sorry son, I just want you to have a better life then we had.”
My grandfather reached into his pocket and examined it. “ I took this when I was a boy.” He held a small icon in his hand, a rock in the rough shape of what looked to be a turtle. “I found it here in 1938 when I would come out in these woods, I have always wanted to return it but for some reason I just can’t bring myself to do it.”
He looked down at the rock in his hand, only looking away and closing his palm around it when I went to grab it. “No, son!” he said, jerking his hand back and sticking the rock back in his pocket. He looked back behind him at the large rock in the center of the depression. “Today is the day I put it back in the ground. I couldn’t do it in 1960 with your uncle Denny, I couldn’t do it with your dad in 1970, and I couldn’t do it last season before your grandmother died.” Without him saying it, I understood. He believed taking this rock caused some kind of curse on our family, just like the land was supposedly cursed by the chief. Who knows if this curse is real or imagined, but maybe this will help grandpa have some peace. I shook my head in agreement with him. Grandpa walked a few yards to the edge of the large rock, knelt down and slid the effigy into the semi frozen earth.
It wasn’t but a few days later when the dreams started. Terrible dreams. They would always start off the same way. Me, floating down through the treetops onto Totem Mound. I slowly fall down towards the rock in the depression at the top of the mound. The sounds of drums start to beat, pulsing through my body as I slowly fall face down over the rock. I stop and hover, the charred, black hole of the notch comes at me; at first slowly than and a great speed.
I can’t move my body as I fall into a black void, the drums get louder and louder and then flames burst all around me. A terrible sight flashes before my eyes. At first it is the sight of a tall, strong, fierce looking man. His face is stoic but his eyes pierce into me, like he can read my thoughts. I feel like a kid who is now in front of his father, explaining why he did what he was not supposed to do. All my secrets laid bare before him. Then it happens.
The fierce looking man takes on the form of a reptile. The head morphs into a hideous shape, like a turtle but more intimidating. The Native warrior takes on a form of a nightmare. I think of the stories and conspiracies about the reptilians, this is something else, something far more archaic and primal. I hear my grandfather’s words “I took this when I was a boy” echo in my ears above the sounds of the drums and I wake up, drenched in a cold sweat.
That year, 2008 was the last time I ever hunted with my grandfather and the first and last time I went to Totem Mound. That spring my grandfather passed away. He was buried in Wintergreen Gorge cemetery in Erie County Pennsylvania. Shortly after he passed my father brought me a small box.
The box was an old Dixie Maid cigar box with some old papers, my grandfather’s medals, a couple photos from his time in the Marines and fishing out on the lake back in the 70’s with my dad. Old mementos. Also in the box was the effigy, the turtle looking rock that I had thought he placed back into the cursed ground of Totem Mound. I got chills, closed the box and gave it back to my dad. “I can’t keep this dad; you should hold on to them.”
It’s been 15 years since then, but the nightmares have not stopped. They have actually gotten worse. I found out through research that the beef between the Iriqouis Nation, and the Erie may have had something to do with sacred practices being violated by the Erie, the Cat People. The turtle was not just some effigy, it was a totem belonging to a clan, a symbol of a guardian to a family and a people.
Now in my dreams, as my grandfather’s voice echos over the drums, the fierce reptilian humanoid unleashes his minions to devour my flesh, maybe even my soul. The demonic turtles tear away skin and muscle, fat and sinew from my bones. Sometimes when I wake up, I see shadows in the room. I even thought I heard the faint beat of war drums one night as I drifted off to sleep.
I have tried everything. I have tried sleep aides from NyQuil to Ambien to no avail. I have talked to therapists, doctors. I have even thought about taking the effigy back myself, but I just can’t do it. I can’t let it go. I need to get out of this town. Will these nightmares follow me?
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